


Covert Relations

by MykEsprit



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, F/M, Post-Hogwarts, Sing Me a Rare 2018, Smut, Spies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 16:18:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16222766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MykEsprit/pseuds/MykEsprit
Summary: Agent Neville Longbottom works to take down an illegal potions smuggling ring. In order to do so, he has to get close to the leader's fiancee, the captivating Corinne Queen.Neville quickly realizes Corinne is not all she seems.





	Covert Relations

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sing-Me-A-Rare Vol.2. Much love to Katalina_Riddle for being an amazing beta! Many thanks to the Admins and Judges of this comp for all your hard work!
> 
> Song Prompt - "Killer Queen", Queen
> 
> And THANK YOU to those who read and voted for this fic!  
> Winner:  
> Overall Judges' Favorite  
> Best Written [the rest is still unwritten]  
> Admin Favorite (VioletBehavior)  
> Best Thriller [it’s close to midnight]
> 
> Runner-Up:  
> Admin's Overall Favorite  
> Best Smut [she bangs, she bangs]  
> Best Surprise Ending Award [now we found love what are we gonna do]  
> The One That Never Leaves You [but you are unforgettable]  
> Best Use of Song [I was singing out loud]

The saxophone wailed a poignant melody as a double bass kept the beat. The bluesy rhythm glided, smooth and easy, from shiny brass instruments onstage.

Couples swayed on the dance floor, dazzling in colorful silks and satin, adorned with diamonds and gold. The upper echelons of Parliament were in attendance, as were lords and ladies—even a duke. Famous celebrities milled about, drawing crowds of admirers to their tables. Harsh, white lights flashed in the soft yellow glow of the hurricane candles and crystal chandeliers.

Polite conversation hummed underneath the music. Global markets and the state of the European Union were discussed in lofty, posh accents.

Amid it all was his target—Corinne Queen, the hostess of this charity ball for the rich and powerful. An American, she rose to the upper crust of society by way of real estate. New money, according to the dossier, but had more than enough that no one minded her lack of proper pedigree.

It didn’t hurt that she was easy on the eyes.

As the band transitioned, he set his drink on the bar and weaved through the crowd. Corinne Queen was dancing with a Member of Parliament; he patted her partner’s stocky shoulder. “May I cut in?”

The mustachioed man glanced at his partner before nodding tersely and retreating.

Left by themselves, he gazed at her. She was the only woman in the room who wore her hair loose—it fell to the small of her back like fine-spun gold. Her sapphire eyes met his regard with amusement, and her manicured eyebrow twitched in challenge.

He held out his hand. “May I have this dance?”

“You’ve already chased my dance partner away,” she said, her lips pulling up into a teasing smile, “so the least you could do is take his place.” He placed one palm just under her shoulder blade and the other out to clasp her bejeweled hand. As they settled into the groove, she mused, “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of being introduced.”

“No,” he said, “which is why I worked quickly to remedy the situation.” He tilted his head down in a slight bow. “Jack Stewart.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Jack. I’m—”

“Corinne Queen,” he supplied. “It would be terrible if I didn’t know that. After all, you _are_ —”

“Not fond of being interrupted while I’m speaking.” A smile still played on her lips, though it no longer reached her eyes.

He stopped dancing; heat flashed under his collar. “My apologies,” he said sincerely.

Gradually, her blue eyes thawed. She waved him off. “You’re not the first man to interrupt a woman,” she said with a laugh.

“Well, it will certainly be the last time I do so.”

“ _Good_.” They resumed their gentle sway. Corinne’s perfect eyebrows knit together. “Jack Stewart?” she murmured. “I looked through the finalized guest list for tonight, and I can’t quite recall a ‘Jack Stewart’ being on the list.”

He nodded. “I’m here on behalf of Lord Foster. He sends his regrets for being unable to come. He’s been looking after his health,”—his dance partner nodded solemnly—"but he wanted to have a representative here for the charity auction.”

“He’s a very generous man,” Corinne said.

“Not as generous as you.” He gave her a knowing look.

“You mean, this?” Corinne laughed softly as she gestured to the polished floor and the high coffered ceiling. “It’s just an excuse for a party.”

“A party that raised fifteen million pounds for the homeless.”

“ _Seventeen_ ,” she corrected.

He chuckled.

At the saxophone’s final, protracted note, Corinne stepped out of his hold. “Thank you for the dance, Mr. Stewart,” she said, flashing him a brilliant smile. “Pleasure to meet you.”

He caught her hand before she stepped away. He bowed over it gingerly, his gaze never leaving her curious blue eyes. “The pleasure is all mine, Ms. Queen,” he murmured and placed a soft kiss on her ringed finger.

* * *

 

Raindrops battered his shoulder by the time he arrived at the warehouse. It stored steel back in the seventies; now, it sat decaying and empty save for stray broken beer bottles and the occasional spray-painted expletive.

Neville checked over his shoulder before whipping out his wand. He traced a triangular pattern over the shuttered door and then turned the rusted handle.

He stepped into bright light.

“How did it go?” yelled Harry without looking up from his workbench.  

Neville crossed the immaculate bullpen. There were only a few other people up at this time of night, each one working silently on a report at their desk or tinkering with something on the high blacktop tables. He slid off his drenched coat and tossed it over an empty stool.

“Were you able to put the surveillance spell on her?” Harry asked, sparing him a glance.

“Yes,” Neville mumbled. He picked up a round enamel pin, which doubled as a tracking and communications device. “Placed it on her ring after I danced with her.”

Harry hummed appreciatively, green eyes twinkling. “Oh, I bet you had fun. That woman has a dancer’s legs.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively before focusing on the device in his hands.

Neville grunted and threw the enamel pin at his head. Harry snatched it out of the air without looking, his Seeker’s reflex intact. “Oy,” Neville warned, “keep it professional!”

“Well, it’s my _professional_ opinion as a trained—and _highly_ skilled—operative specializing in surveillance, intelligence, and reconnaissance,” Harry said, raising his chin and puffing out his chest, “that the bird’s got nice legs.” His lips turned up in a lopsided smile.

Neville sighed. “You know, this is why Kingsley never lets you out of the Warehouse.”

Leaving Harry to his work, Neville paced between the desks. A narrow hallway, tucked between a conference room and the armory, led to temporary quarters. His was the second one on the left. He stepped inside the spartan bedroom, peeling off his cold, wet clothes. He entered the en-suite and jumped in the steamy shower.

As water scorched his skin, he replayed the short conversation with Corinne Queen in his head. She certainly wasn’t what he expected; their intelligence report painted a picture of a social-climbing debutante. Neville was prepared to flirt and flatter his way into her good graces.

He didn’t anticipate having to dodge her barbed words, nor evade her volatile temper.

There was something about her that put even a seasoned covert operative like him on edge. Something underneath the pretty veneer—coiling, rattling, poised to strike. He could see it in the tilt of her head, the set of her lips, the quirk of her eyebrow.

The flash of lightning behind her blue eyes.

_Fuck_. And now his body was reacting, his meticulous libido stirring at the prospect of such a woman.

He glanced at the bathroom door, slightly ajar, letting steam escape into his private bedroom. He needed to get back to the bullpen soon.

His body protested. Neville released a frustrated grunt and closed his eyes.

Work could wait a few minutes longer.

* * *

 

His dark hair was still damp by the time he rushed back to the bullpen. Harry held a headset up to his right ear, throwing Neville a worried glance.

“What is it?” Neville asked.

Harry shook his head. “Bloody surveillance spell isn’t working,” he muttered.

With a frown, Neville placed the other set over his ears. He was met with only faint static. “I wonder why it’s not picking up anything.”

“Maybe she has something that mitigates the spell?” Harry asked.

Neville shook his head slowly. “That’s a long shot. Our intelligence says that she doesn’t know anything about her fiancé’s magical black market deals. She’s not aware that he makes his money by smuggling potions and Dark Artifacts and auctioning them off to the highest Muggle bidder. It would be strange if she possessed anything magical that would counter our surveillance spell.”

“Which item did you enchant?”

His heart sunk as he realized his mistake. “Her engagement ring,” Neville muttered.

“Right,” Harry goaded. “Right, right. Her engagement ring. The one given to her by the Muggle fiancé with deep ties to Knockturn Alley. The one we’re trying to gather evidence for so we can take him down.”

Neville rubbed his face with the heels of his palms. “Fuck.”

Harry gave him a sardonic smile. “I hope you didn’t put away your dancing shoes.”

* * *

 

"Fancy meeting you here.”

Neville turned around. He had been scouring the ballroom of yet another charity event, knowing that Corinne Queen was a VIP on the guest list. His surprise was genuine; _she_ had approached _him_. “Hello,” he said, letting astonishment color his tone.

“Lord Foster still feeling under the weather?” Noise across the grand hall caught her attention—a woman with a tall bouffant calling her name.

As she turned away, Neville was able to appreciate her— _assess the target_ , his mind corrected. Her gown grazed the marble floor. The rich, burgundy fabric draped on her lean, toned frame, making her look like an animated Greek statue. It hinted at her feminine curves and left her arms and back enticingly bare.

She glanced back and caught him staring. Her eyes narrowed with smug amusement.

Neville cleared his throat. “Yes, I’m afraid Lord Foster is still feeling ill.” He held a hand out. “Nothing to worry about, however. He’ll bounce back soon enough.” He signaled an attendant, who brought over a tray of champagne.

Her lips quirked into a wry smile. “I’ll send over flowers. I do hope he gets back on his feet soon.”

He took two flutes from the tray and handed one to Corinne. “As do I.” He brought the glass up to his lips; the bubbles tickled his nose. “Although, perhaps not _too_ soon. I’ve quite enjoyed coming to these charity events.” He paused as he took another sip, gauging her expression from the corner of his eye. Then, he murmured, “Particularly since you’re here, too.”

Her flute arrested halfway to her lips. “A bit forward, don’t you think, Mr. Stewart?” Though her words were severe, her blue eyes danced with delight.

It bolstered his resolve to proceed with the plan. “You seem like you would appreciate a man who gets to the point.”

She nodded once. “I do, and I already have one of those,” she said. “His name is Peyton James.”

He watched her with his eyes half-lidded. “I know,” he murmured.

She tilted her head slightly, an eyebrow twitched in challenge. “James,” she emphasized. “As in the James-Attley Conglomerate. Owns roughly half of England?”

Neville tipped his flute back, finishing his drink in one gulp. He let a smirk crawl over his lips.

“And you’re blatantly hitting on his fiancée,” she continued, “even though he could ruin you—get you fired and make sure no one hires you ever again? Not even as a barista at a hole-in-the-wall cafe?”

He leaned over to whisper in her ear. Her Parisian fragrance reminded him of the Hogwarts greenhouses in springtime—sweet but earthy, floral with a hint of spice. He suppressed the urge to nuzzle her neck for a more potent whiff. Instead, he whispered unhurriedly, “ _I know_.”

When he pulled back, a mischievous smile played on her dark red lips.

* * *

 

The city skyline sprawled across her picture window. Dozens of stories below, London’s streets lit up with traffic, and shadows of pedestrians raced across walkways.

A cabinet door squeaked open. “Would you like a drink?” Corinne asked.

Neville turned away from the glass.

Corinne held a bottle of Moet et Chandon in one hand and two champagne flutes in the other. She gestured to the black leather couch.

He sat down; she sank into the cushion next to him. He poured out their drinks, and for several moments, they sipped their champagne in silence.

Finally, he murmured, “Nice place.”

"Thank you," she said. "Peyton got it for me." She kept her gaze glued to him, as though appraising his reaction.

He glanced around the flat. The walls were painted stark white, and large minimalist paintings hung on display. The space was furnished with plain black furniture, set low as to not block the view.

It was like living inside a gallery or museum—immaculate, cool, the perfect place to store beautiful, intriguing art. He could see why Peyton James chose it for his fiancée.

Neville raised his glass in her direction. “He’s got good taste.”

Her eyes smoldered as a smirk tugged at her lips. She drank the rest of her champagne and nodded once. “Follow me,” she murmured, disappearing into a darkened hallway.

Neville set his flute on the side table, glass hitting black marble with a faint _clink_. He squared his shoulders as he trailed after her.

In his line of work, seduction wasn’t a regular occurrence. The few times he capitulated, he performed with consummate professionalism—fastidious and precise.

From the way his heart pounded as he approached Corinne Queen’s bedroom, Neville doubted he could fall back to standard procedure.

He nudged the door open, and soft light from the bedside lamp poured out into the hallway. Corinne stood by the foot of the bed, taking off her red-soled high heels and dropping them on the plush white carpet.

“Come in. I won’t bite,” she said, a predatory smile forming on her burgundy lips, “unless you want me to.”

He entered the room; as he came close, she turned her back to him. “Help me out of this dress,” she ordered.

His thumb traced along the fine straps over her shoulders. Slowly, he pushed them down her arms, and the fabric pooled at her hips. His fingers grazed the sides of her bare torso.

He closed the gap between them, pressing his hard member against her—to let her know exactly how she was affecting him, yes, but also because _damn it,_ he needed it, too. Needed to feel the contours of her body against him.

Neville placed his lips just under her earlobe and trailed kisses down her graceful neck. He peeked at her full, rounded breasts. His hands—as though they had a mind of their own—reached around and cupped them, his thumbs teasing her firm nipples.

She leaned back, molding her body against him with a soft moan. His hands moved down and pushed the bundled dress off her body.

In a flash, Corinne turned and caught his lips. Hers were soft and expert, and although he had his fair share of female companionship, he had never experienced a kiss quite so intoxicating. Searing.

His coat was off before he realized; his tie and shirt quickly followed.

He blinked and found his back pressed on the mattress, his legs trapped between her knees. She pulled back, unfastening his pants.

Reality sliced through the fog of lust—he couldn’t let her do it. Not yet; not until he released the Bug from his side pocket, the one enchanted to hide in the shadows of the flat and listen in on her conversations with her kingpin fiancé.

Neville pinched her chin with his thumb and forefinger, pulling her up with a gentle traction. He captured her lips, letting his hand explore her smooth, velvet skin before he reached into his pocket. His fingers closed around the Bug, and he pulled it out.

Two things happened before he could unfurl his fingers.

Corinne clasped her hand over his fist, pinning it on the bed.

And the pointed end of a wand jammed under his jaw.

“What the hell are you doing?” Her voice was steel, and her body tensed above him.

Neville angled his head down, mocking confusion. “What’s going on?” His eyes flicked to the vine wood in her hand.

It dug deeper into his flesh. “Enough games,” she hissed. “Who are you, and why are you trying to Bug me? You’ve been surveilling me since my charity ball. Or did you think I wouldn’t notice the spell you put on my engagement ring?”

With his free arm, he struck the inside of her elbow. Briefly, she lost balance—but, as she toppled on him, she shoved her forearm under his chin, compressing his airpipe.

Stunned, his arms flailed—he needed to get a grip before he lost consciousness. His hands found purchase on her shoulders, and he locked his elbows. She was a lightweight; he lifted her off with ease.

He used the momentum, twisting his torso to reverse their positions—though not before her fist landed on his cheekbone with a sharp blow. His head snapped back. Stars flickered in his vision. Were it not for his more substantial mass, she would have overtaken him again. With his knee against her solar plexus and his arm like a bar over her sternum, he pressed her against the lush comforter.

He secured her wrists over her head and settled his weight over her hips. She thrashed underneath him, trying to buck him off. He called on nine years of experience as a professional to will himself not to glance down at her naked torso as she writhed beneath him.

“Calm down! I’m not here to hurt you!”

Her head flicked up and her teeth grazed the underside of his chin.

“ _Bloody_ —” With a frustrated growl, Neville rammed her deeper into the mattress. “Calm the fuck down!”

Her lips curled into a snarl. “ _’Calm down?!’_ You’ve got me pinned on my bed, and _you’re_ telling _me_ to _calm down?!_ ”

He locked her in place. “Listen, I’ll release you,” he said, “ _after_ you tell me who you are. Because, _obviously_ , you’re more than just a Muggle real estate agent.” He glanced at the wand, which had been thrown off the bed during their scuffle.

She wriggled under him. “ _Let. Me. Go!_ ”

"Not until you tell me who you are!"

"You're the one who owes me an explanation!" she yelled.

Neville wondered idly if the walls were thin enough that their commotion alerted the neighbors. He glared at her, not budging on his terms. Eventually, she stopped squirming, and her pants and huffs quieted.

Her eyes turned cool and hard as ice; so did her tone. “I can’t tell you,” she said. And then, she whispered, “ _Not here_.”

Neville sighed and closed his eyes. Whoever this woman was, she was certainly _not_ what their intelligence reported. She was a witch, not a Muggle…and from the panicked look in her eyes as she glanced at the open bedroom door, that was a fact she hid from her fiancé.

A single piece of knowledge, but enough to blackmail her for more information. “All right,” he said. “Meet me at Holland Park in an hour. Come alone.”

He jumped off the bed and threw the Bug on the floor, where it quickly scampered out to the dark hallway.

She dove for her wand. He whipped his out and Disapparated before she could fire a spell.

* * *

 

An owl cooed somewhere in the trees. Neville perched on a wooden bench, keeping an eye on the winding path. It was empty of stray joggers and sauntering couples, as expected at two o’clock in the morning.

His right hand straightened the enamel pin on his collar, and then tenderly touched his swollen cheekbone. It only stopped throbbing minutes ago.

A slight disturbance in the air was the only indication of her arrival by Apparition. The wooden benched squeaked as she settled beside him.

He glanced at her from the side. She wore skin-tight pants and a black, zip-up sweater. The hood was up, covering her profile.

“Corinne?” His fingers wrapped tighter around his hidden wand.

The woman snorted and pulled her hood back. Yes, it _was_ her—same high cheekbones, same manicured brows. Same pair of red lips, slightly fuller on top.

Her eyes, intense and calculating, were no longer gem blue but dark. Under the moon, they were obsidian.

Her hair tumbled out, reaching past her shoulders like chocolate whirls.

“It’s me,” she said, a cynical smile on her lips, “but I’m no more ‘Corinne Queen’ than you are ‘Jack Stewart.’”

He nodded sharply. “Who are you?”

She glared at him; briefly, he thought she might run instead of answering his questions. Finally, she said, “Granger. Hermione Granger. I work for MACUSA.”

His mind stored the first piece of information, though it focused on the second. “MACUSA?” His eyebrows furrowed. “You’re a MACUSA agent?”

“No,” she corrected. “I was hired _by_ MACUSA. Peyton James has been stealing merchandise from Wizarding communities in the U.S.; I was employed to infiltrate his circle.”

“So, you’re…a freelance agent?” Neville asked. “A spy? A mercenary?”

Her obsidian eyes flashed. “I’m whatever I’m paid to be.”

Neville shook his head. “Why didn’t the MACUSA just send in their own agents?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “James is a UK citizen. All his official businesses are based here. So, I was hired to gather evidence of his _unofficial_ businesses.” She laughed mirthlessly. “It’s cleaner for the MACUSA. Hire an agent off the books. If I run into any trouble, they can easily deny their meddling in British affairs.” Her eyes flicked to his face. “Enough about me. Who are _you_? What do you want from James?”

“I’m doing the same thing you’re doing,” Neville said. “Gathering evidence to send Peyton James to prison.” He thumbed the smooth surface of his enamel pin; it flashed the letters “CID,” superimposed over a broad “M” before it faded to black. “I’m an agent for the Covert Intelligence Division of the British Ministry of Magic.”

She arched an eyebrow. “I’ve never heard of that division,” she said, suspicion shading her tone.

“Hence the ‘covert.’” He grinned, suppressing the laughter bubbling in his chest. He held out a hand. “Agent Neville Longbottom.”

As though Petrified, she stiffened. “Longbottom?” she whispered. Her expression hardened, and she glowered at him like a stone gargoyle. Then, she jumped off the bench and hurried down the path.

Confused, he ran after her. “Wait!” He caught her hand.

She glared at him, yanking her hand out of his grip. “I understand that you have a job to do, Agent _Longbottom_.” Her voice was low, dangerous—a warning. “Do what you need to do.” She stepped forward, invading his personal space as venom seeped into her eyes. “ _Just stay the fuck out of my way_.”

* * *

 

Neville stumbled into the Warehouse, his shoulders hunched in dejection. He expected the bullpen to be empty, as there were a few hours left before sunrise. It took him by surprise to find Harry at his workbench, staring into space. The brows below his lightning scar wrinkled in consternation.

“Harry?” he asked as he quietly approached.

Harry started. “Nev.” His expression carefully relaxed, though it didn’t fool Neville. They had been friends for almost two decades and work partners for nearly half that time. “How—erm—how is she?” he asked, his voice hesitant and hushed.

Neville tilted his head.

Harry tapped on his own collar, then pointed to Neville’s, where the plain enamel pin glimmered. “I was listening in.”

“Ah.” Neville leaned his elbows on the cluttered counter.

A heavy silence followed. “I remember her,” Harry murmured.

“Corinne?”

Harry shook his head. “Hermione,” he said slowly. “Hermione Granger.”

Once again, the name settled on his mind like a familiar weight.

Harry read his baffled expression. “She was in Gryffindor with us, first year,” Harry said. “But only for a few weeks.”

A face popped into his mind. Hermione Granger. Bushy hair. Buck teeth.

Beaten to the edge of death by a troll on Halloween.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Neville mumbled. It was a marvel that he forgot her name—he was the one who stumbled upon her, after all, her body mangled and blood-soaked, thrown on the ground like a dirty rag. “I’ve always wondered what happened to her.”

“Me, too.” Harry raked his fingers over his short, tousled hair. “After her parents pulled her out of Hogwarts, none of the professors ever told me anything more than that she survived.” He blew a puff of air. “I always feel guilty whenever I think about her. She had been trying to be my friend ever since the Express. But Ron Weasley and I, well, we were assholes—”

“You were _kids_.”

Harry grinned cynically. “ _Asshole_ kids.” He slapped the surface of the workbench. “We were terrible, and it almost got her killed.”

Neville reached across the table and laid a comforting hand on Harry’s shoulder. “She turned out fine,” he said. “I know that doesn’t absolve you of the guilt you’ve been carrying around, but Hermione Granger is alive. And bloody frightening in her own right.” He squeezed his friend’s shoulder before letting go. “What happened to her was awful—but it was what clued Dumbledore into what Quirrell was up to. Caught him harboring Voldemort before Christmas. Took care of all the Horcruxes,”—he gestured to Harry’s scar—“before that monster could come back to full strength.”

Harry shook his head. “All that for the small price of one lonely girl.”

Neville took a deep breath and released it, his sigh prolonged. The image of that young girl, eager for knowledge and acceptance, was a far cry from what she was _now_ , a woman made of spikes and lightning and hardened steel.

He agreed with Harry—it _wasn’t_ a fair trade.

* * *

 

For three weeks, Neville did nothing but observe. He had done his part in planting Bugs where James spent his personal time—his various properties in and around London, his cars, and yacht.

Other operatives were assigned to James’ professional space. Smithers was deep undercover on the Muggle side of the potions trafficking; Marvin worked as a low-level employee at James-Attley Conglomerate. Every minute of Peyton James’ life was tracked, watched, or eavesdropped.

Even his private time with his fiancée.

The Bug he left at Corinne’s— _Hermione’s_ flat sent signals in real time. Neville was surprised; he was certain she would hunt the Bug down and squash it under her stiletto heel.

Most nights, he wished she had done so.

Peyton James visited his fiancée in the evenings. Sometimes, he came early enough for dinner. Often, he arrived too late. During those times, he and Hermione shared a bottle of champagne and retired to the bedroom.

Then Neville’s ears would fill with Hermione’s soft moans. A rustle of clothing, a creak of the mattress. The wet smack of lips and tongues; the slapping of skin against skin, faster and faster. “Yes, God _, yes!_ ” and another man’s name escaping her lips.

It was exquisitely unbearable. Were it not for CID policy that an operative mans the Bugs twenty-four hours a day, he would have gladly turned off the audio during those times.

But round-the-clock surveillance remained part of the job, and so Neville was stuck with Hermione’s carnal sounds.

During the first week, Neville blushed through these episodes. But the longer he listened, the more recent memories flashed through his mind—the way she writhed underneath him clad only in knickers, eyes flashing in fury. The way her lips curled into a snarl as her small, hard fist jabbed into his cheekbone. The way those same pair of lips felt under his, soft like pillows, but fervent, intense. With each time he eavesdropped on their lovemaking, the visions became more vivid.

Neville suffered through each session. Each was less bearable than the last, and by the second week, he took more drastic measures. He would wait until Peyton James’ snores and Hermione’s shallow breathing came through his headset. Then, Neville would order a junior operative to take over as he took a break in his room—and jumped in a cold shower.

By the third week, he had given up. The visions in his head were inexorable, and her moans haunted him in his sleep.

So he pushed through each new installment, hiding a raging hard-on from the occasional operative passing through the bullpen those late hours.

After he was relieved by the next shift, Neville hurried to his private quarters and stripped down. He hopped under a scalding spray, replaying the sounds of her ecstasy in his head, his hands gliding up and down his shaft until he found his release.

* * *

 

She wore a bodice that cinched her waist and a silk tulle skirt that puffed out and ended just below her shapely calves. Her hair was golden once again, and loose curls escaped her messy French twist. She looked fairy-like and magical, a flower in Queen Titania’s court.

Tonight, she stood beside Peyton James. Tall, broad-shouldered. Chin slightly angled up like a man who owned the world—or, at least, roughly half of England.

Her gaze landed on Neville, who was staring from the bar across the room. A few minutes later, she excused herself from her fiancé, who didn’t spare her a glance as she stepped away.

Neville turned around, planting his elbows on the oak countertop, and counted in his head. He got up to eleven when he felt her presence at his side.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed from the corner of her mouth as she signaled the bartender.

Neville brought the glass of whisky to his lips and mumbled, “I need to speak with you.”

Hermione turned her head in his direction, though still not facing him fully. “About what? Are you not getting everything you need from your pesky surveillance?” A smirk ghosted her lips. “Or were you hoping to catch a live show tonight?”

Heat flashed up his neck; his gaze settled squarely on her mischievous face. “You’ve been doing it on purpose!” Mortification and fury roiled in his chest at the triumphant gleam in her eyes.

She feigned innocence. “What do you mean? All I’m doing is making love to my future husband every night,” Hermione whispered. “Reveling in his pleasure.” She stepped closer to him. To most, it would have been imperceptible; but his body sensed the change, as if his molecules vibrated faster the closer they came to her heat.

Neville gulped down the rest of his drink to wet his suddenly parched mouth. “I’m not here to play games.” He slammed the empty glass on the counter. “Meet me tonight. Same place. One o’clock.”

He rushed out of the ballroom, stamping the urge to glance back. 

* * *

 

He paced in front of the wooden bench at Holland Park, his frustration ramping with each passing minute. He glanced at his watch again—1:21. He growled under his breath.

“Are the British always so punctual?”

He whirled to find her lounging on the bench, her lips turned up in a cat-like grin.

“You should know,” he snapped. He regretted the words as soon as they left his lips.

Hermione’s back became ramrod straight; she crossed her legs and folded her arms in front of her. “So,” she said flatly, “you do remember me.”

Neville held his breath as he searched her face. It was _hers_ again—dark eyes framed by dark curls. He found himself preferring this real version to the glossy golden girl from mere hours ago. “Of course I do,” he whispered.

Her heated glare was assessing, calculating. He froze like a deer caught in a wolf’s gaze. Then, she nodded curtly. “What do you need?”

His trapezius muscle relaxed a fraction. “We need access to James’ potions ledger.”

Hermione raised a skeptical eyebrow. “He keeps that in his office at JAC.”

He shook his head. “Not for the past two weeks. According to one of my men, James got spooked—apparently, something came up missing in his office. An amulet. He suspects a mole, so he transferred all evidence of his…side dealings…to his private study in Chelsea.”

She tilted her head. “You’re telling me the Ministry doesn’t have him completely covered?”

Neville rubbed the back of his neck, trying to relax his taut muscles. “We do for his businesses…his private life is another matter. We don’t have access to what goes on outside his work,”—his gaze fluttered to the ground, and his cheeks burned—"aside from the Bugs in his residences.”

Understanding dawned in her eyes. She unfurled on the bench, leaning back with an indulgent grin. “So, now, what?” Her gaze traveled languorously up his body. “You’re looking to team up?”

“I know you’ve got your own mission—”

She waved him off. “MACUSA is hands-off. They just want Peyton James off the board—don’t want him doing his shady business on American soil.” She stood and narrowed the gap between them. “My only instruction is to get that done, one way or another.”

At her approach, his tongue darted out, involuntarily, to wet his lips. “So you’re willing to work with us?”

Hermione took another step closer. “Whatever gets the job done faster.” A shadow of irritation flickered over her face. “I’m tired of being here.”

His heart sank at her admission. “Is this the first time you’ve been here since…” he trailed off, unable to voice what happened to her.

It was just as well; once again, life drained out of her tone. “No. I’ve come and gone since then. For missions, of course.”

“But you’ve been in the States this whole time? Ilvermony?”

She bobbed her head once, expression walled off.

“Listen—Hermione—”

She sliced a hand through the air, cutting off his words. “ _Don’t_.” Her gaze was cold in the silver moonlight. “This is neither a job interview nor a date. No need to get personal.” She took her wand out from under her jacket. “I’ll find you when I’ve got the ledger.” With nothing more than a faint breeze, she Disapparated.

* * *

 

A shrill screech startled him awake. Neville bolted out of bed and ran out of his quarters, not bothering to put on a shirt. There was no time to spare—not when the “unidentified intruder” alarm pierced his eardrums.

A half dozen operatives padded up behind him, wands at the ready. He held up a fist; they halted in their tracks. Silently, he ordered them to go on his signal.

Three...two...one.

They rushed the bullpen.

Only one person waited for them inside, sitting in Neville’s chair with her high-heeled leather boots propped on the corner of his desk.

He growled in exasperation. “What the _fuck_ , Hermione?!” He waved his operatives away. “It’s all right,” he barked. “I’ve got this.”

In a minute, they were alone. Neville flourished his wand and silenced the alarm.

“Quite the welcome wagon,” Hermione quipped.

He glared at her, folding his arms across his bare chest. “How did you get in here?”

“You mean, how did I figure out the secret knock to the boys’ club?” she mocked. “Easy. I know which one of your men is undercover at JAC.” She flicked her wrist. ”Don’t worry, he’s not _very_ obvious. But you should tell him to stick to one side of his trousers when he stores his wand. It affects his stride when he walks, and you can’t have him favoring his left side one day and his right the next.”

Neville ground the base of his palms against his eyelids.

“Anyway, I followed him here about a week ago. Not _too_ close because of your staggered wards—nice touch, by the way—and watched him do that thing.” She drew a triangular pattern in the air, a sigil that unlocked the Warehouse door. Then, she shrugged her left shoulder. “Not that hard.”

He chuckled wryly, unable to keep the reluctant awe from his tone. “Right.” He walked up to her, lifting her heels off his stack of papers; she set her feet on the floor. Neville leaned against the desk, curling his fingers under the metallic edge. “So, why _are_ you here? Ever since you disabled the Bug at your flat two weeks ago,”—his tone grew hard—”I thought perhaps you changed your mind about helping us.”

A smirk tugged on Hermione’s lips. “Why, Agent Longbottom, have you missed my nightly performances?” She leaned forward in her seat. “Would you like a private recap?”

Neville glowered at her.

She laughed mercilessly. “Here,” she said, producing a thick notebook the width of his hand. “A peace offering.”

He plucked the book from her grasp. Inside the beaten-leather cover, line items were written in a meticulous script. Locations, dates, times—

“It’s all here,” Neville murmured. “Records of past shipments—local, international.” He glanced at her over the book. “How were you able to sneak it out?”

Hermione fluttered her fingers. “Magic.” At the roll of his eyes, she grinned. “It’s a faithful replica. The real thing is still in James’ safe.” She reached up, finding a specific page. “Check this out,” she said, tapping on an entry.

Neville’s eyes scanned it; then, he registered the date. “Tomorrow?” he whispered.

Hermione nodded. “Coming in by rail. Hither Green,” she said, pointing to a column on the page. “ _Thirty million Galleons_ ’ worth of Dark Artifacts and illegal potions. It’s the largest delivery he has to date, so he’s going to see to it in person.” She looked at him squarely.

Hope ballooned in his chest. “If we catch him in the act of receiving this, it’s enough to negotiate his extradition with the Muggle Ministry.” His knuckles rapped against the desk in excitement.

Hermione gazed at him curiously.

“James is responsible for the murder of a handful of wizards in Knockturn Alley,” he explained. “Deals that went sideways—or so we think. But as he’s a Muggle, we couldn’t just pick him up and charge him in our Court. The Muggle Ministry wanted undeniable evidence before they signed him over to our jurisdiction.” Neville shook the notebook in his hand. “After tomorrow, we can finally try him in the Wizengamot for murdering wizards, endangering Muggles, and breaking laws against magic.”

Hermione’s smile broadened. “Good. There isn’t a deep enough hole in Azkaban for that bastard—” Her wide-eyed gaze shifted past Neville’s shoulder. She shot to her feet.

Harry approached them in silence, an apprehensive look in his green eyes.

She licked her lips nervously. “Harry Potter,” she rasped.

Harry bobbed his head. “Hermione.”

Neville’s gaze flickered between them. He opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it.

The former classmates— _friends_ was too generous, too fabricated—gaped at each other. Guilt and shame piled high on one side—bitterness and ire on the other. Though something else hung in the air. A desire to talk; a willingness to listen.

A chance to make amends.

Without another word, Neville backed out of the room. He wasn’t needed; not now.

_Just as well_. He clutched the ledger as he strode to the conference room.

He had a trap to set.

* * *

 

The sun peeked over the horizon by the time he shuffled towards his room. A plan was set in motion. Even now, operatives headed out to the railways and its surrounding areas, getting things in place.

In fifteen hours, this would all be over.

He nudged his door open. Hermione stood in front of his bedside table, holding a silver frame.

“My parents,” he said, shutting the door behind him.

Gently, she replaced the frame. “Frank...and Alice?”

He chuckled softly. “You remember.”

“Yeah.” Hermione came nearer, her steps slow and deliberate. “I remember you. First year. You had a toad named Trevor.” A smile—genuine, nostalgic—appeared on her lips. “I just didn’t recognize you at first. You look,”—her gaze brushed over his face, his torso—”different.”

His snicker grew louder. “I should certainly hope so.”

She threw her head back and laughed. A melodic sound, softer than expected.

In the weeks he’d known her, he realized he should strike certain words from his vocabulary—expect, assume, suppose. At least, when it came to her.

Hermione’s laughter quieted, though amusement remained behind her dark eyes. “I wonder what else has changed.” She sliced her head to the side. “Not that I could appreciate the differences. I was part of your world for such a short time.” The mirth on her face dissolved; melancholy took it place.

Neville stepped forward. “You could always stay.” It came out as a whisper.

Hermione tilted her head. Her eyes grew intense, as though she carefully assessed his words, turning them over, inspecting each letter in her mind. She showed her verdict in the angle of her eyebrow and the upward slant of her lips. “Maybe I will,” she whispered, “just for a bit.”

Her palms pressed against his chest and slid up to his shoulders. Fingers traced his jawline—skimmed his cheeks. Nails scratched against the dark stubble on his chin.

“Just for a bit,” she repeated before closing her eyes and pulling him down to meet her lips.

His arms encircled her waist; he pulled her flush against him. His greedy hands flayed against her body, eager to explore every inch.

Hermione’s arms wrapped around his shoulders. It wasn’t enough—he needed more.

From the moment he had her in his arms—during their brief dance—he began to crave her. His appetite grew when they kissed, clashed, tumbled on her bed, fighting for dominance.

Weeks and weeks of her cries of pleasure transformed his craving to voracious hunger. It gnawed at his core; ate away his self control.

He was no longer a man—not an operative, nor a wizard. With his hands on her body and his teeth on her neck, he was a ravenous beast.

Neville lifted her up, and she snaked her legs around him.

_Still not enough_. He walked forward blindly, uncaring. He needed only one thing—a surface to press her up against, trap her between it and his tensed, hardened muscles.

Her back thumped against the wall. She cried out in surprise—pain—and he swooped down on her lips, claiming her moans for himself.

“Mine, now. Mine,” he mumbled against her skin.

They clawed at each other. Ripped through fabric too weak to withstand their urgency. Their clothes lay in a wasted pile under their feet.

His face buried between the soft mounds of her breasts. His indecisive hands slid over her the planes of her belly. Palmed her pert nipples. Curved over her hips and cupped her arse. “ _Fuck_ ,” he groaned, shoving her harder against the wall. “ _Hermione_.”

“Yes,” she hissed. “ _Yes_ , Neville. _Fuck_ me. _Yes._ ”

With a growl, he pressed the heel of his hand against the inside of her knee—lifted it, pinned it against the wall. His other hand explored the apex of her thighs, finding her ready, _so_ ready.

When he sheathed himself inside her, he thought the aching hunger would diminish. How wrong he was—he should have known. He could never predict her words, her actions, her intentions. He should have realized that fucking her would be no different.

He moved inside her, against her. Drove into her—slow, at first, and deep, until the insatiable beast broke free. Then, it was quick and hard, one hand fisted against the wall while the other gripped her hip, slamming her down to meet his thrusts.

“ _Fuck!_ ” he grunted. Her muscles clamped around him, tightening, squeezing.

She opened her mouth and a wordless cry escaped. Just as he heard it every night for weeks. Just how he imagined it—played it over and over in his head. Hermione in ecstasy.

He followed soon after—and his pleasure devoured him.

* * *

 

“Are you sure you want to be here?” Neville asked.

She replied only with a pointed look before glancing back at the projector screens.

He and Hermione—and a few other operatives on his team—waited inside a shipping container, which they transformed into a temporary command center. White screens lined a wall, showing various angles from visual Bugs at the scene.

One was trained on the shipment of potions. Other Bugs scanned the exit points, where Neville’s teams remained hidden, waiting for their signal to move. The middle screen showed Peyton James in the backseat of his SUV, unaware that his fate had been sealed hours ago.

Neville waited for the vehicle to pull up. He watched James step out and walk up to the train car full of potions. His team of bodyguards circled him.

When the visual Bug recorded James opening the shipping container full of illegal magical items, Neville gave the signal.

“Move out!” he ordered through their earpiece.

His operatives swarmed James, taking down the bodyguards who put up a fight. Peyton James threw his hands up in the air and got down on his knees as a ring of wands surrounded him.

“Perp secured,” his team informed him.

Neville’s shoulders loosened, and relief flooded his chest. He turned to Hermione, who gazed impassively at James’ cowering form on the screen. “Shall we?” Neville offered a hand.

Her eyes flicked down briefly. Then, she smiled at him—a perfect kind of smile. Practiced. “Go ahead,” she said. “I need a minute.”

His instincts nagged him—ordered him to stay. But the chatter in his ear reminded him he still had a job to do.

Neville nodded, a frown deeply entrenched on his features. “I’ll see you out there.” He walked towards the exit. His steps slowed down as he strained for a response.

It never came.

* * *

 

Neville knew she wouldn’t be there when he came back. She didn’t show up at the Warehouse, either. When they raided James’ residences, there was no sign of her.

Disappointment gnawed at him. The beast that hungered for her bayed at her absence—prowled restlessly, batted at its cage.

For days, the case kept him busy. Peyton James was held in custody by the British Ministry of Magic. The Muggle Prime Minister signed off on his extradition papers. For his crimes against wizards and Muggles alike, he faced a short, concise Wizengamot hearing, followed by a long stint in Azkaban.

A week after the raids, Neville wandered London. His feet took him to Holland Park. He strolled on the dark, winding pathway and stopped at the familiar bench where they rendezvoused in the past.

For a while, he gazed around. It was midnight; no joggers disturbed his reverie. The weather was calm; the animals all slept. The park was quiet and still.

When a breeze fluttered his hair, he held his breath.

The bench creaked beside him. “Fancy meeting you here,” she said.

His hunger flared. He fixed his gaze at the footpath in front of him, his hands clasped tightly on his lap. Not yet, he told himself— _not yet_.

“You’re back?” He waited for her response.

“I don’t know.”

He grunted in irritation. “So, why are you here?” Neville rasped.

With a sigh, she said, “I don’t _know_.” She paused. “I don’t belong here anymore. I don’t think I ever did.” In the periphery of his vision, he saw her head shake slowly. She, too, had her hands clenched, held tight against her body. “I don’t know what I’m doing here,” she whispered.

Despite the clawing inside his chest, Neville grinned. “How did you know where I was going to be?”

She shrugged. “I snuck into the Warehouse—you people _really_ need to change your locks, by the way. Harry was there. He told me that you’ve been... _moping_ around.”

Heat crawled into his cheeks. He was grateful for the new moon, which hid his telltale glow.

“I _presumed_ your recent behavior had something to do with me. So, I thought I’d check here,”—a teasing smile came over her lips—”in case you were reminiscing.”

Neville chuckled dryly. “Am I really that predictable?”

Hermione leaned back in her seat. “‘Fraid so.”

He turned his head, bringing her fully into his line of sight. His hands, though, stayed in place. _Not yet_. “All right. What am I going to do next?”

“You’re going to ask me to stay.” Her voice was analytical, detached.

He shook his head.

“No?” Confusion came over her face.

“No. I’m not asking.” He stood and faced her; he kept his hands to himself. “ _Stay_ , Hermione. Stay with me.”

Life came back to her eyes; they flashed at him in challenge. “Is that an order?”

“You like a man who gets to the point.”

“I do.” She laughed—a _real_ laugh. She got to her feet and tilted her face. A sly smile played on her lips. “Do you happen to know where I can get one of those?”

_“_ You’re in luck.” He smiled down. Her obsidian gaze gleamed with mirth and mischief. “There happens to be one in your vicinity.” His fingers hungered for her, longed to skim her cheeks and trace her lips and run all over her body.

She took a deliberate step towards him.

_Not yet?_

_Now_ , he thought, and the ravenous beast bounded out of captivity.    

 


End file.
